The Freak
by lady kameko
Summary: One of the turtle's worst nightmares becomes a horrifying reality. Character death, darkfic. Complete.


This is a surreal, dark piece and the ending isn't a happy one. There is graphically implied multipule characters deaths and heavy angst. Consider yourself warned. A special thank you to my friend Sneaky Turtle for beta reading this one shot.

* * *

**The Freak**

The first time he wakes, he doesn't remember who he is.

He doesn't take in the bars or the cold, hard floor.

He doesn't realise that he is aware of nothing, other than the distant sounds of a jeering crowd and organ music.

He doesn't think to let any of this bother him and he lets his eyes slide closed again, his mind tumbling back into a comforting darkness.

* * *

There are two men.

One wears a gaudy red ensemble with gold tassels and a black top hat, his face painted with red, white and black make-up, exaggerating his features.

The other is more mundane, in a simple black suit and tie, and crisp white shirt. He is older than the costumed man is, heavier and tired. But a tiny spark of light flares in his eyes and he smiles, looking youthful again for just a moment.

"There, you see? It's awake. I told you it was fine."

The man in the make-up frowns, troubled.

"I still say you're giving it too many sedatives. How will it be fit to give any kind of performance if it's drugged to high heaven?"

"The tranquilizers are necessary. I can't risk it getting loose and harming anyone. Imagine the lawsuits."

A dry chuckle.

He watches the two men converse further. They speak of ticket sales and media coverage. Then they go to leave, but the costumed one hovers at the door, staring in wonderment. He shakes his head hopelessly, as if believing they have doomed themselves, and then follows in the older gentleman's footsteps, disappearing into nowhere.

* * *

He remembers his name.

Michelangelo.

Mikey.

Mike.

He can't remember who called him that, just that somebody once did, and that it seems like such a long time ago.

He remembers four colours. Red, blue, orange and purple.

He doesn't remember what they mean.

* * *

The lights are too bright and the crowd is too loud.

When he is finally revealed, they gasp, and then the jeering starts.

A mild electric shock surges through him, prompting him into action. The crowd reels back, torn between terror at the unknown and a morbid curiosity that lives within all of human kind. They settle, watching in fascination and awe, as he is walked around the ring. The collar around his neck is too tight and he feels he could faint, but a small miracle is granted, and he completes the act.

The spectators roar and the performers take their bows.

* * *

He has three brothers.

Their names are Leonardo, Donatello, and Raphael and they roamed the sewers together as children.

He has three brothers and for the first time, he feels hope.

He waits for rescue.

It never comes.

* * *

Performing gets easier.

He is given fewer drugs, long since beaten into submission. He has resigned to fate; this and only this is now his life. The path for him has been chosen and he has no option but to follow it. There is no sense in fighting when there is nothing to fight for.

It is only now that he can recall the battle and the bloodshed, the dismembered bodies – mutant and human - left lying to rot in the tunnels. He doesn't remember how he survived or why he was the one the victors choose to take. All he sees of the invasion is brief flashes, tiny pieces of his memory that won't quite connect. He can, at last, remember Splinter, but the memory brings no comfort; he remembers just the rat's last moments. Ancient and decrepit, his beloved Sensei hadn't stood a chance.

He weeps once for his family.

Then he tries to forget.

* * *

Days become weeks, weeks become months, and months become years.

He is the headliner of the show. His name is in lights and he is the principal reason for the company's success.

People flock to New York City from around the world to see The Amazing Human Turtle, and there is even merchandise made and sold in his likeness.

The public still do not know whether to fear or champion him and a safe distance is always maintained.

He is alone. Surrounded by ogling audiences night and day, but always alone. The people and their approval, or lack of, is nothing to him. They're all just a blurry haze of random faces that he can barely see through the special effects of smoke and mirrors.

He finds comfort in the form of dreamless sleeps. He doesn't seem to dream anymore, whether he wants to or not. There is just oblivion and it has come to be the only thing that ever truly soothes him, now.

The circus is his life.

Welcome to the greatest show on earth.

_FIN._


End file.
